on
a bench..
the sea is
swoll,
seagulls are
loud,
few kids are
here
to skip their
stones–
i hear them
squeal,
on
a bench
with much
to feel.
rhyme
wiped a snowflake
from your
cheek,
assuming it
was wept,
but a stain of
white was
left
upon skin where
winter
bled.
tomorrow in
a bottle,
today’s washed
up on shore
to escape cold city’s
confines
on a quest for
so much
more.
harmful were
desires
born from within a
lonely place,
and acrid was
the taste
of desperation
we perspired.
is this naked me
before
you
the soul you
wish to
see
or shall you ask
me not so
gently
to cover up
and flee?
as day creeps
to a close,
father time sheds
his skin
to reveal all
along
a slave to him
i have been.
it wasn’t the storm
behind your
eyes
but
the calm
that
disarmed,
keeping ships
from harm.
speak to
me
of tender times
in spell that
has no
end
and forsake the hex
of shadows
upon dear wary
friends.
trickling of a
raindrop
down the courtyard
wall
leaves a trail
so slick
it reminds us we
still linger
here,
our forms still
pressed to
brick.
come now hear
a song
of weary whispers
between
the
tips of
crystal pines
down to find us
where we
breathe
the air that shall
forgive
those of us who
grieve
this timely hymn
of beauty
for the ache
it leaves.
hands in the garden 
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